


a moment's peace before the fall

by philthestone



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she squints, she can pretend that it is exactly twenty years previous and the young, smiling man standing in front of her (with the floppy blonde hair and blue eyes and that uniform, as though it's already been stamped with a death mark) is someone else. </p><p>And she is terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a moment's peace before the fall

**Author's Note:**

> Mary-centric. George gets called to war.
> 
> I've said it before and I'll say it again - Mary's life sucks. Also, I saw those stills from season five and whatever spawn of satan decided that George ought to look exactly like his goddamn father - well, I would say I hate you, but well done, sir.
> 
> Reviews are Mary's life not sucking c:

It’s when the train whistles for the second-last time that she makes her decision. 

Her back is facing him, her fingers gripping the toy in her hands so tightly that a small part of her mind worries for a half-moment that it will tear, and Sybbie is standing in front of her, the girl’s eyes wide and blue and ever-so-slightly watery; the pale green of her skirt contrasting to the scarlet of the train beside them. 

Tom said he’d wait for them in the car.

The whistle sounds again, this time more urgent, and she turns, heels clicking on the pavement, breath catching in her throat, and remembers a moment before when he was kissing her cheek goodbye and pretending to wince when Sybbie punched him playfully in the shoulder and made him promise to _not do anything stupid, stupid._ Her eyes burn and her hair, streaked with silver and memories is slipping out from under her hat and she can hear the desperation in the sound of her own boots on the ground but she can’t help it and she runs.

“Mama, what –?”

She doesn’t let him finish the question and instead grabs his hand ( _don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t you dare cry_ ) and presses the raggedy doll into it forcefully, the silk of her gloves contrasting with the rough patchwork of the toy and the softness of (her _son’s_ ) his hand. 

“It was your father’s,” she manages (she doesn’t know how, but it comes out and she’s grateful, grateful that she can at least fix the bewildered look on his young, achingly familiar face), “that is, it was mine – but then when he –” she inhales, sharply. “I – I gave it to him, when he –”

“Mama,” says George softly, and she stops looking blindly at the front of his uniform to finally meet his eyes.

“It’s my lucky charm,” she says finally, the words coming out as though she’d only said them yesterday, and she finds herself slipping back into that same age-old façade as she recites the verses. “I’ve had it always. So you must promise to bring it back in one piece, you see.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and tears her eyes away from his, because this is _wrong_ and it’s _all happening again_ and if she squints she can pretend that it’s someone else standing there in front of her and walking to what could inevitably be his death and _it’s not fair but don’t you dare cry._

“It’s going to be alright, Mama. I’m going to be fine.”

She breathes again _(just breathe, Mary)_ and pinpoints him with a glare because harshness has always been her best defense and he may be her son but that isn’t the point, here, the point is that you can’t tempt fate twice and it was bad enough that she’d had to do this once before but if George came back without his –

If he –

She swallows.

The whisper is fierce and low and this time, her voice doesn’t quaver. “Not a scratch, George Crawley, do you hear me?” 

“I promise.” His eyes are earnest and full of naïve hopes and fancies that break the illusion that is twenty years ago, when those same eyes were sad and resigned and (dare she think it?) full of regret.

She smiles, then, her eyebrows raising like they did all those years before and her hands clasped in front of her and her shoulders pushed back, and steps in to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’d better board before the train leaves without you,” she tells him, ignoring the incessant prickling at the back of her eyes, and he smiles back, a lock of his blond hair flopping out from under the brim of his hat and into his eyes. 

“I love you, Mama.”

It is when he is safely on board, when her shoes are clicking irreverently on the cold, hard ground, when she is walking back to Sybbie, whose lip is caught between her teeth and who extends a gloved hand to her in an unasked question of _are you alright, Aunt Mary?_ that she realizes that her hands are shaking uncontrollably. 

And it is only when she and Sybbie are seated in the back of the car, and Tom turns and looks and her and reaches for her hand from the driver’s seat with a soft “he’ll be alright, Mary,” that she starts to cry; broken, aching sobs that reverberate in the back seat and cause her shoulders to shake even more than her hands. 

When she stops, her hand pressed to her mouth and her cheeks stained and glistening, she knows that Sybbie looks slightly frightened and Tom is most likely glaring at the road and she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes and whispers a short prayer (but not to God, because the last time she asked God to protect anyone it ended with several months in a hospital and at least two different broken hearts and nightmares to last a lifetime).

_“Take care of him, please.”_

**Author's Note:**

> So I definitely left out lots of characters that could have been there but I wrote it quickly and with tears muddling my vision, so that didn't happen. And besides, I refuse to believe that Mary every got married again. She flirted, sure, and smiled, and payed calls, and was polite and certainly enjoyed the attention - but I don't think she got married. I don't think she could.
> 
> (Also I probably shouldn't be posting this, since I'm at work, but shhhh)


End file.
